Oil Can on the mound, World Series ball,

Facing first baseman Wheeler Hobby,

Full count, the pitch is thrown,

Just barely misses the strike zone,

Wheeler walks to Oil Can's dismay,

Ruddy coach emerges from the dugout,

Strolls slow and steady to face the disgruntled pitcher,

And with a bony thumb, motions him to exit the game,

At which Oil Can responds with a speedy fist to the coach's cranium,

Laying him out flat,

And silence overcomes the dumbstruck crowd,

Only Wheeler's cold snickering can be heard,

In a frenzy, the pitcher pounces on the jeering miscreant, going for the throat,

Both teams erupt from their respective dugouts and charge the maniacal Oil Can,

Sound emerges from the flooded stands once more,

The sound of disgust and disappointment,

The sound of rising fury,

Oil Can swinging his arms in every direction,

To keep the fuming members of the opposing team at a distance,

But striking his own teammates who would guard him by accident,

And, in effect, inciting the rage of every individual on the field,

Then racing off to the emerald depths of left field,

He retreats,

The wounded Wheeler and confused players in dazed pursuit,

Oil Can holds up his bleeding fists to the hissing onlookers,

Belting out wicked curses in their direction,

Peering hatefully to the left and to the right,

And injured by this slew of insults,

The crowd boils over the gates and swarms him,

Prepared to tear him to pieces,

Oil Can, red-eyed and unyielding,

Kicks out his cleats as the ravenous forces buoy him skywards,

Brandishing the body that will be their kill,

When, at once, the arrival of the Royal Centaur:

Her face appears smiling in a halo of dazzling lights,

A blinding lightning rod is issued forth,

Transforming the spurned pitcher into a rainbow of jewel-plated particles,

By which to transport him in this moment of chaos to his appointed throne,

Found within the meticulously ornamented walls of Tiger's eyes and sapphire,

Aloft famed airship the Mighty Everlast.


San Francisco, 2015